


The Fire at Lucien Blake's House

by miss_nettles_wife



Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: Crying, Discussions of sex, Engagment, F/M, Fire, Mentions of Death, Metaphors, Unrequited Love, house fire, inspired by the Baby Sitters Club, past father/son relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 14:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6569068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_nettles_wife/pseuds/miss_nettles_wife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can Charlie and Rose rise from the ashes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fire at Lucien Blake's House

**Author's Note:**

> OBVs this fic is highly inspired by 'The Fire At Mary Anne's House' Baby Sitters Club book, but it's not an AU of it or anything, just highly inspired. Did anyone else love BSC as a child? I sure did. Main pairing is Charlie/Rose who have probably replaced Charlie/Mattie and Charlie/Bill as my OTP. Also, feel free to see a larger version of the pic used as the cover + that compared to an actual BSC cover at (whatever my bio says is my most recent blake blog URL) / tagged / TFALBH

It's freezing cold, but Charlie and Rose are warm. In front of them, a fire rages. Charlie is wearing his dressing gown, but no shoes. Rose is wearing only her knee length night gown. Still the fire rages while they watch the firemen try and put it out. Neither of them can do anything, or say anything, just watch, in shock, as their home slowly burns to the ground. 

Charlie is the first to recover himself. He glances at Roses shaking shoulders. Even if she doesn't think she's cold, her body betrays her. He removes the blue and black robe that was a gift from the Doctor, and draped it over her shoulders. She accepted it, and looked up at him. He looked down at her.   
“Holy shit.” He whispered.   
“Yeah.” She agreed. 

Bill Hobart walks over, now the fire is nothing but wet wood and soaked plaster. He's been on the fire brigade for over ten years, but he's never seen the house of one of his closest friends burn to the ground before. “Charlie, Miss Anderson.”  
“You've known me for ten years, Bill. You can call me Rose.” She said, in her usual fashion, as she drags her eyes away from the wreckage.   
“Have you two got a place to stay, for the night?” He asked softly. He might be opening his doors to them, she can't tell.   
“Uh, I'll call Matthew.” She said, and gently put a hand on Charlie's arm. “I'll walk to the phone box, you stay here and talk with the fire men.” She said.   
“Lawson?”  
“He's your family as well.” She chided gently, her brain struggling to process what had just happened.   
“Hm.” Charlie replied, offering no comment. Rose took his hands for a moment, and then left, a female constable following after, having apparently heard the conversation. 

Charlie turned his eyes off the ruins of his home to face Bill. He's twisting the ring on his finger, the same way that he does when he's deeply concerned with something. “What happens now?” Charlie asked softly. He's never had a house burn to the ground in front of him before. In vain, he wishes that the Doctor was here. He'd know exactly what to do. 

“Well, you'll go stay with Lawson, we'll make sure the fire is out, and tomorrow you'll have to come to the station to make a statement.”  
“Alright.”  
“I know what this house meant to you...”  
“Save it.” Charlie said, after several moments. “I don't...I don't want to hear it right now, I might start crying.” Bill nodded, and they both looks at the smouldering blackened wood.   
“Inspector!” Both Charlie and Bill turn at the title, since technically speaking it's the title that both of them have. Chief Inspector Bill Hobart and Inspector Charlie Davis. It was only by luck both of them had remained at the same station all this time.   
Bill heads off, Charlie is looking at the house with sad eyes. 

…

Charlie woke up alone, this is unusual, because he has to be at work hours before Rose does, so she's usually in bed with him when he drags himself up for work. He reaches for her in his half awake state, looking for her hand among the empty sheets. It's not there, so he forces himself to wake up. 

And then he remembers everything from the last night. The thick smoke, the ice cold fear at the thought of Rose not being able to get out, the crunching relief when they left the house, the deep sadness at watching Blake's house burn and then nothing. 

Like he'd been asleep for the last few hours. He's still in his smoke smelling clothes from the fire. Rose's nightdress is draped over a chair, and the sun is streaming in though a window, it's Lawson's house, he knows this much. He and Rose have stayed over many nights in this house over the last few years. 

He got up, and slowly walked to the kitchen, seeking out Rose like a Rose-seeking-missile. Rose is standing at the table, and Charlie makes his way over, and envelopes her in a hug from behind. He put his chin on her head and fastened his hands around her waist. He doesn't recognize the clothes she's wearing, but they smell like mothballs and are dreadfully out of fashion. 

Not that Charlie himself had a great deal of know how when it came to do with fashion. His own style was tasteless, if it looked sort of good, then that was what he would wear. Since Rose moved in his style had improved marginally as she offered suggestions but he remained largely the same. He thinks these clothes might have belonged to Lawson's mother, or sister. So Rose's mother. 

“Good morning.” Rose said from under him, placing her hands on top of his. “You've been asleep for hours.”  
“House fires tend to tire people out.” Rose sighed softly.   
“I called Mrs Beazley, she said she'd take the next train. I thought you'd want to call Mattie.”  
“You think she'd come over from London?”  
“I've never met her.”  
“Right. Sorry.”  
“Matthew's upstairs showering.”  
“Right.”  
“What do we do now?”   
“I don't know.”  
“How will we get in contact with Blake?”  
“I don't know.”  
“How much of the house will still be there?”  
“I don't know.”  
“What do you know?”  
“I love you very much.”  
“Suck up.”  
“Unashamedly.” Rose scoffed, but didn't move him off her.   
“How about this. You go put on some clean clothes, and I'll put on some toast. Then, we go to the station, then we go to the house and start collecting what we can.” It could almost pass as a normal conversation, but he can hear the fire blazing in the back of his mind. He presses her closer to him, unable to break his hands away from her waist, in case she too, were to go up in smoke 

“I expected you to be more broken up about this.” She said.  
“You know me, Rose. I just love bottling things up inside before having a breakdown.” Charlie said, in what might have been an attempt at a joke.   
“Hm.” She replied, giving him a slice of toast. “You're making dinner then, since I did breakfast.” Pause, “And you're making lunch for today.”   
“You drive a hard bargain.” Charlie replied, shoving the toast into his mouth. “But fine. Has Lawson got things for sandwhiches?” He asked. He felt distant, as if he was simply observing, afraid to disrupt the peace and cause them both to see what had actually just happened to them. Rose seems happy enough to play along with him for the moment now, though. He assumes things will get worse when they actually get to the house. 

…

“State your name for the record.”  
“Rose Anderson.”  
“Occupation?”  
“I'm a journalist for the Courier.”  
“Place of residence?”  
“It was 7 Mycroft Drive. Now its a smoldering pile of ash.” Bill let out a breath and glanced at the Constable he was sitting with. Rose knew him, knew Charlie didn't like him. According to Charlie: Too angry, why are so many new recruits so angry? She had her own opinions on him, she came from a police family and was engaged to a police man. She spent plenty of time at the station. This bloke always treated her like less then. She thought he was a pig. Rose adjusted her skirt under the table, it was horribly outdated, left overs from when her mother had last lived in the family house. And it was horribly scratchy.   
“Anyway.” Bill said, looking at the recruit, and then back to Rose. Bill Hobart, an interesting sort. Charlie trusted him, but she always felt like he was going to explode with pent up anger. “Can you tell us, in your own words what happened last night?”  
“Starting from?”  
“Lunch time.”  
“I was working.” She said, “I left work at five, was home by five thirty, Charlie made dinner for seven, we ate, and I was in bed by nine.”  
“Charlie?”  
“Inspector Charlie Davis, my fianceé. He's your superior officer.” She said, in a tone that could have killed a snake.   
“How long have you been together?” the constable asked, none to kindly.   
“We dated for two years, been engaged for six.”  
“Why so long?” Rose looked at the female senior constable taking notes. She leant over.   
“Let the records show that the subject is uncomfortable with this line of questioning, and finds it irrelevant.” Bill takes over again.   
“Now where were you when the fire started?” That was an easy one.  
“I was in bed, asleep.”  
“And what woke you?”  
“Charlie did.”  
“He wasn't in bed with you?”  
“No, he was downstairs, he still had some paper work to do.”  
“He sleeps in your bed?”  
“He sleeps in our bed.” Rose said, keeping her voice icy and firm.   
“So you were asleep at the time of the fire.” Bill said, directing the conversation again.   
“I was, yes.”  
“What was Charlie doing in the office?”  
“Feeling sorry for himself and doing paperwork, I imagine. It's the time of month when Blake writes him.” Rose said, thinking back to the dresser of over a hundred letters, never opened, never read, but every envelope touched and felt and held. Charlie was a confusing man at the best of times. “A close friend of his, walked out on us about ten years.” She said, with a little smile. “He was in China, last I checked. He owns the house.”  
“And has someone contacted him?” Rose shrugged. “Ask Charlie.”  
…

Lawson is sitting on a chair outside with Charlie, who looks more then slightly worse for wear. Rose hadn't known this, but apparently Charlie had an extreme brand loyalty when it came to hair wax, and he refused to wear anything else. His hair is more or less undone, in Lawson's clothes and shoes a size to big and still with a somehow missed smear of soot behind his ear, he wasn't exactly looking like the well put together Inspector that he usually was. 

Hobart welcomes him through while Rose walks out to see her uncle. Lawson was sitting on a chair, holding his cane tightly between his fingers, playing with the decorative knob on the top. This cane had been a gift from them two years ago after Charlie broke the one he did have on the head of a criminal. (A long story) She took Charlie's seat and let out a long, long sigh.   
“How is he?” Lawson asked, as if he hadn't been sitting next to Charlie a few minutes ago. Over the years, Charlie had only gotten better at hiding what was going on inside his head, it was an open secret that the only person he shared any personal details with was Rose.   
“I think he's in shock.” She replied, smoothing the skirt over her knees. It's plaid, as well. It reminds her of Charlie's plaid jacket, and it occurs to her that she will never see Charlie in that jacket ever again, it was on the coat rack by the front door, which they hadn't been able to get out via. 

“He seemed...Very upbeat, by Charlie standards.”  
“It hasn't sunk in yet, for either of us.” Rose admitted. She glanced in the direction of the rooms, and then back at her uncle. “I feel like i'm in some kind of horrible dream...You know what their theory is? Charlie burned the house down.” Lawson put a hand on her shoulder. “That's such bullshit!” She complained, not making any effort to apologize for the language.   
“I know.” Lawson said, with a little breathy sigh. “And Bill knows. And Frank Carlyle knows. Everyone who knows Charlie knows he would never, ever do anything like that.”   
“It's just that horrible constable.” She sighed. “He's so horrible.” Lawson scoffed, and started poishing his cane on his jumper.   
“Any word from Blake lately?” Rose shook her head.   
“Charlie's devastated he didn't get a letter this month.” Lawson nodded.   
“He never reads them.”  
“He just likes knowing.” Pause.   
“He's never been mad with you about it, has he?” Rose gave him a weird look.   
“No, of course not. Why does everyone always think he's done something wrong?” Lawson blinks,   
“Sorry, I just, get worried about you.”  
“You've known Charlie for years.”  
“I know.” He said, “And I want you both to be happy.” He paused, “But I get worried about you.”  
“You are my uncle, and his uncle, as well.” A slight pause, as Lawson considers.   
“I love him, he's a good kid.”  
“He's forty two.” Lawson leant back, and gazed over at her.   
“He's not good at relationships.”  
“I know. I've been in one with him for eight years.”   
“I worry that he's going to misunderstand something, or say something without understanding and you'll both get hurt. “  
“You shouldn't.”   
“I know.” A silence settled over the room.   
…  
Upon driving to the house, there was a surprise waiting for them. Standing around, apparently waiting, was probably every person that Charlie Davis and Rose Anderson have ever spoken with, made eye contact with or breathed the same air as. There were three Tynemans, Edward, as well as Patrick and his wife, all three wearing matching frowns. Bill Hobart's room mate John is sweeping their driveway free of the larger pieces of glass, Bill himself in the car behind them. A bunch of people from the courier carrying piles of clothing to a sign labeled 'Clothes for Donation', Charlie mother, who is standing behind the sign, two of Charlie's brothers were taking the mostly burned away door off it's hinges, the wife of one of said brothers as well as several wives of officers from the station who were setting up sandwhiches for the people here. Rose's mother who was sorting out the clothes into piles, amongst some of the people present. 

Frank Carlyle is heading towards them, and his face breaks out into a grin that reminds Rose of a gecko. “I thought you might need some help.” He said. Charlie is speechless next to her, holding onto her arm essentially for dear life, and she can almost predict his thoughts. Charlie would never have considered this, would never have considered that people cared about them. About this house. She smiles back. Everyone looks up at hearing Frank speak. 

The parental figures make their way over to their children. Charlie's mother, who like most mother of the grooms, thought that Charlie could do better then Rose, Rose's mother, who thought Charlie was an odd man, but was not going to stand in the way of a relationship that made her child happy. There is a strange lack where her father used to be before he passed away a few years ago. Charlie has told her many times since then that it never goes away, just become less like a missing piece, and a piece of you all its own. Lawson stands behind, an indomitable figure, with one hand firmly on Charlie's shoulder. Rose glances at him, and notes that his eyes are wet, like everything is setting in for him, finally. She tries to figure what he must be thinking. Something like 'Oh god, our house is gone' and 'thank you, I didn't know so many people cared.' Rose knows she will have to speak.   
“Thank you.” She said, softly. Her mother embraces her and Charlie, who looks like he's about to fall down. He doesn't. He hugs back. Charlie's mother joins the embrace, and then Lawson, and they just stand, until Charlie breaks away to breathe. 

“What needs to be done?” He asked, looking over at Bill, who looks back at him. “Well, everything has been photographed by the firemen, so from now, we're going to have to look around the house for anything salvagable, we've collected clothing donations, since when I went around before, the bedroom was badly burned, and there's lunch.”   
“Where are we going to put it?” Rose hears Charlie ask, sounding distant.   
“For now, we'll put it under those canvas gazebos, and then everyone with utes will take it to a storage locker.” Charlie looks down at her, he's still got a death grip on her arm, as if she's going to vanish. Maybe he just isn't sure what to do. She smiled at Bill.   
“Sounds like a plan.”

They spread around the house. Rose in the bedroom, while Charlie was helping deal with all of the unused and badly burned medical supplies left downstairs, and they work steadily. As she helped deal with their things, a lot of which were ruined, Rose was struck with the feeling that they would never be sleeping in the ruined bed. Bill says they could probably salvage the frame. 

The clothes in the top part of the dresser are ruined, but the clothes in the bottom part are salvageable. Most of her cosmetics are melted, her plastic headbands are ruined, Charlie's uniforms are gone, but a pair of his running shoes were protected from the fire and show up under the bed where he stashed them. Rose finds, and puts her engagement ring on with great relief. She wonders what happens now. 

She left the room around three seeking food. She found Charlie in the livingroom, covered in soot as if he'd been rolling in it. Rose can't help it, she laughs at him. Charlie gives her a weird look, and then starts laughing himself. She realizes that she is probably not much better. Charlie's mother, who was sorting out out plates that could still be used. Jean is sitting with her, having just arrived. Apparently she and Charlie have already had their reunion or whatever. 

She ends up in Charlie's arms, listening to his laughter rattle around in his ribcage. It sounds hollow. Rose suspects hers sounds the same way. Eventually, they split a part, and she glances at the other slightly surprised women. “Mrs Beazley, Mrs Peters.”  
“Rose.” Charlie's mother just nods.   
“You promised me lunch.” Rose said, looking over to Charlie, who gives her a little smile.   
“It's three in the afternoon.”  
“It's food time.” Charlie scoffs, but relents.  
“I think there's some sandwhiches left...” He said, as he headed out. She glanced back at Mrs Beazley and Charlie's mother, before deciding that she would much rather be out in the soot free air. 

…

Charlie was right. People had been bringing food over all afternoon. It reminds her of when her father died, and people brought over food every day. There'd been so much food that she and Charlie had taken some home with them when they went back to Ballarat. She again tries to guess what Charlie is thinking. He's probably thinking about Blake. Sometimes he seems to go for months without it, and then he just gets this look, like he's just swallowed toothpaste. That's his 'Im thinking about Blake' look. She put a hand on his arm, and he smiled, before selecting a sandwhich and some kind of muffin, and passing them to her. 

“Thanks.” She said, “But I don't know if this counts as lunch. Might have to roll it over until tomorrow.” Charlie rolls his eyes good naturedly. They found a seat by the donations table, and sat. Apparently, Charlie wanted the soot free air as well.   
“Matthew worries about you.” She said, looking up to him.   
“He's old. Old people worry.”  
“He's sixty five.” Charlie sighs.   
“What you mean, Rose, is that he worries about me hurting you.”  
“No I don't.” Charlie gives her a look that is tired, but not malicious. “Well what do you expect, Charlie, we've been engaged for six years! When are we gonna get married hm?” It's a jibe she gives him often. “If Blake was coming back, he'd be back by now.” She doesn't want to fight with him, but his self depreciating nature just really gets to her sometimes. Of course, telling him off is the right way to make him feel better. Charlie, for his part, turns attention to his shoes and looks suitably upset.   
“I miss him.” Rose suddenly feels bad, because the soggy cardboard Charlie is back. She put her head on his shoulder, and looked over to the burnt wreak of the house.   
“I know.” She looked back at him. He looked at her, before staring up at the sky.   
“There's nothing left.”   
“I know.”   
“It's all just ash.”   
“Yeah.” Rose felt morose as she ate her lunch.   
…  
It sounds creepy, but Charlie liked to watch Rose sleep. He knew he wouldn't be sleeping tonight, he just couldn't, how could he. But he could lie here and let Rose use him as a hot water bottle if she wanted. He liked watching her sleep, because it was peaceful. Relaxing even. But even that wasn't enough for tonight. Despite having spent the day combing though what was left, he wasn't tired at all. He might have even felt energized. Maybe. He didn't want to be too generous. He untangled himself from Rose, and tugged his freshly washed gown over his shoulders. 

There were boxes of clothes on the floor, donations. Some were their size, the rest were being donated back to where they came, or to the Salvation Army. He wasn't sure what to make of it. He couldn't stop thanking people, all afternoon. He thanked someone for bringing him tea when he couldn't find it in himself to go back to the house, he thanked Edward for giving Rose time off work, he thanked his mother for cleaning plates, he thanked Roses mother for not fighting with his mother, he thanked Lawson for the shoes, he thanked Mattie over the phone for agreeing to try and contact Blake, he thanked Bill for all his help, he loses track from there. 

People had been telling him all afternoon how this was such a shame. If one more person tells him that God does things for a reason, and that they'd be okay, then he might actually vomit. That was if Rose didn't deck them first. Mrs Beazley (Not Mrs Blake or Jean anymore) was awake, and smoking. Which was unusual. She never smoked, in fact Charlie used to get in trouble for smoking in the house. Lawson didn't give a shit, but she did. He wandered over to the open window and stood facing her. 

“Can't sleep?” Charlie gives her a smile that Rose told him makes his face seem like a smug gecko. “Silly question. Your house just burned down.”   
“Yeah.” He said lamely. They stood in silence for a while.   
“I'm sorry that I left.” Charlie glanced at her, and then shrugged.   
“Everyone moves on in the end.”   
“I'm still sorry.” He turned to gaze out at the stars. The Frying Pan stares back at him, he closed his eyes for a moment, before looking back at her.   
“If you apologize to me one more time I may vomit.” Jean let out a strangled sound that may have been a laugh. A pause. “So. You and Rose still aren't married.”   
“No.”   
“No children, either.”   
“No, no children.”   
“Why?” Charlie sighed.   
“I wanted him to be there, and she wants to work, so we just...Never married.” Jean watches him, and then stubs out her cigarette on Lawson's window sill.   
“Take some advice. Don't.” She sounds uncharacteristically bitter. Charlie pulls her into a hug a few moments later, and keeps hugging her until the tears stop and they're both sitting on the floor. 

“I miss him everyday.” She whispered, like it was a secret.   
“Me too.”   
“I thought if I left, then I might leave the feelings behind. And then, just realizing that I was never going to see him come into the house again...Brought them all back.”   
“Can I tell you a secret?” She nods.   
“When Rose and I were watching the house burn, I wasn't thinking anything like that, I was thinking about my shoes. I was wondering where they were, exactly.” She smiled slightly, and put her head on his shoulder, like he was the lifeboat in the seas that had become their lives. “I never thought we'd make it without him, but here we are, making it.” a long pause, as they reflect. “We're going to get though this.” He promised. “We always do.” She gave him a tiny smile.   
“We always do.”  
…

The next two days followed much like the first. Wake up, eat, go to the house. It was becoming a comfortable routine. Among the things saved were the bathtub from the downstairs bathroom, some wall hangings from Blake's office, and the deck chairs. 

Interestingly, most of the studio had been spared from destruction. Standing among the ruins, Jean remembered when Lucien showed her the gold leaf, and they watched it drift up and up and stick to the ceiling. The roof is blackened now, damaged from the fire, and the water. Unsealed paintings had dripped, wax had melted. 

Closing her eyes, she tries to imagine the fire, picking up the gold leaf and whipping it all around, around and around, like a tornado of gold sweeping up everything in its path, engulfing it, and then releasing it when it was extinguished. It reminds her of Lucien, in a sad way, but all she can picture is the tornado of gold. 

…

Charlie was feeling...Okay. Not good by any stretch, after all his house just burned down, but better. There wasn't too much to be saved, but there was some things. He's standing with Lawson, looking over todays finds. Lawson had been directing transport of things, since Charlie didn't want him in the house lifting things with his leg. Lawson, for once, listened. 

“It's good that we've found some things.” He said, watching Charlie's brother and a man from the courier lift up the bathtub to take to Bill's organized storage locker.   
“Yeah.” He agreed, “It's...A relief, I guess.” Lawson gives him a funny look, and Charlie realizes, that it's not a look for him, but for behind him. Turning, he saw what Lawson was starring at. 

Lucien Blake was standing at the driveway crossing towards them, and everyone was staring at him. This lighting, with the sun behind him, illuminating his face, he looks like an angel or some kind of ghost. He's older, certainly, a little thinner, but still so much the same. Not that Charlie hasn't changed. He has, he's got crows feet now, and is starting to notice grey at his temples. 

And he runs. Bursts into a sprint, feet leaving the ground, he might be flying, because he just has to get there, and then, he's there. Blake is there, after ten years, looking at him, and Charlie looks back, before pulling back his fist, and punching him right in the face. 

…

“Do you feel better?” Rose's tone is sarcastic. He probably deserves it, really. After punching Blake once, and the man didn't fall, he'd been reeling back for another blow before Rose grabbed him from behind, wrapping herself around him, and though the pulsing fog he recalls   
“Charlie! Charlie stop, no, enough!” 

“No.” He admitted, rubbing his hurt knuckles.   
“You are the most frustrating man sometimes.” She said, sitting next to him in the car.   
“I can be.”   
“So. Enlighten me, why punch him when all you've wanted for the last ten years is him coming home. Shouldn't the pair of you be crying into your beers somewhere?”   
“I don't like beer.” Rose sighed.   
“Okay.   
“Spill it.”  
“I don't know. I just felt angry.” He said, sadly. “He left us, to go to China, go after May Lin. He asked Jean to marry him!” He said, while wiping furiously at his eyes, since he was crying now apparently. His tears were hot and angry. Pent up and buried anger peeking it's ugly head. Rose bit down on her bottom lip. Charlie sighed.   
“You should go.” Rose looks back at the house, at the reunions taking place, and then looks back at him, with her own tears. Apparently his crying was all she needed to push her over the edge. He tugged her up to his chest, and buried his nose deeply in her hair, one hand joining it, trying to hold her as close as he could, like maybe if he held her close enough they would wake and things would be how they were. But that doesn't happen in real life, so here they were, embracing in the back of Lawson's car, holding on to each other like they were the last two human beings in the whole of the universe. 

Eventually they both stop, but they don't break away.   
“We could leave.” Rose said, not breaking away from his chest to speak, so it came out slightly muffled. “We could go to Melbourne, and get married in that Church you like, settle down, have some kids..”   
“You're still blacklisted in Melbourne, and no one else would hire you if you were married.” He said, gazing down at her.   
“We could go to Adelaide, get married in a registry office.”   
“No one will hire you if you're married.”   
“Well maybe I want to be a housewife. I can chide you about leaving your socks on the bathroom floor. Push out a couple babies. Bake cupcakes.”   
“Those are your socks, you can't bake and I think that kids deserve a little more thought then that.” Rose sighs, and kept her face pressed clothes.   
“You're right.”   
“And you'd hate giving up work.” He continued, “Not to mention the satisfaction we'd be giving Edward Tyneman.” Rose sighed in a way that means 'you're right but I don't want to admit it'. “Can we just sit here, then? For a little while.” Charlie nods.   
“Sure.” He said, before following that with “There's soot everywhere, by the way. Lawson is gonna kill us.”   
“He's already going to kill you for punching Blake.”  
“He deserves it.”   
“He does. I think he's more upset you beat him too it.”   
“He's old. Old people get upset.” Rose scoffed at him, and curled one of her hands up tight in his shirt.   
“You're not exactly a spring chicken yourself, Inspector Davis.”  
“Is that so, Mrs Davis?”   
“Certainty.” Rose said, but didn't remove herself from his grip just yet. 

…

It's much later that Charlie meets Danny Parks. Well, meets is the wrong word. They have met before, in the confusing period following the Doctor walking out on them. In the day where Jean found the note, and when Charlie had to call Alice to deal with a murder, and the rush of anger when Lawson threw a plate at the wall. These memories are untended and slowly becoming forgotten, ashes from his mental purge. But some survive, unable to be ruined, despite his efforts. 

These memories include Danny Parks and himself. He was standing at the door to Blake's office, unaware he was crying. The first and last time he cried for the Doctor. Danny held him, and they rocked together, unable to break apart, together in their grief. They'd never spoken of it, and it floated between them, restricting the time that they could tolerate in each other's presence.

Danny meets him in Lawson's kitchen. “Mattie's going to be here tomorrow.”   
“Hm.”   
“Anyone ever told you that you've got the personality of wet cardboard?” Charlie looked up from the pot he was stirring at the stove.   
“No, but thank you for enlightening me.” He bit out, continuing to stir the pot. Danny walked up behind him, and watched over his shoulder.   
“You shouldn't have punched him.”   
“Given that I'm the one of us who has some semblance of his shit together, I'm not interested in your advice.”   
“He didn't mean to hurt you.”   
“Well that's not my problem.” Charlie said, looking grim, and pale as a sheet. Danny leaves soon after, and Charlie still managed to burn his onions. 

…

“You're angry with me.” Charlie looked up from where he was kneeling in the soot. He's sworn he'd seen something here in the ashes, and was going to find it. Right around here was where most of Rose's jewelery would have turned up.  
“What gave you that impression?” He asked, ignoring the building tears behind his eyes as he continued to dig as hard as he could in the dust. It's getting under his nails and in his eyes.   
“Charlie.”   
“Don't you fucking Charlie me. It's Inspector Davis to you.” He said, before clearing away enough dust to see what he was looking for. It was an earring, no partner in sight. The pearl is black with dust, it smudges off on his fingers.   
“You're angry with me. I wrote letters.”   
“What and you think I ever read them?” He asked. “You left us.” He said, as he stuffed the earring into his pocket and started to hunt down the partner. He can't fix the house, but he can find the other earring, give it to Rose. He can't fix Rose either. But he can find the fucking earring. Except that it might be lost forever in the dust and ashes of this part of his life.   
“I'm s-”  
“We had something really good, Doc.” He ranted, crawling forward in an undignified way he would never have even considered ten years ago, he couldn't hear another sorry right now. “You had a life here, a woman who loved you so much, a job, a house, a family...You had me!” He said, as he began to scoop soot and run it though his fingers. “And you went to China because you realized, three days before your wedding that you had cold feet! Sorry Jean!” One of his nails gets caught on the floorboards, and the top pulls off. He doesn't notice.   
“She thought that you were coming back! She kept the dress in her wardrobe for three years.” He said, still aggressivley hunting down the other earring. “She loves you. I loved you.” He said, still searching for the fucking ear ring, as if it was vitally important to his quality of life because he can't fix the house, but he can find the fucking ear ring and give them to Rose, who is his fiancee of six years and he can't fix, because before, when Blake was gone he thought he was fine, but now he's here and Charlie is being forcibly pulled up from the ashes of this house and this life like some kind of cliched pheonix to yell and scream and use the anger that he hadn't even really realized he was holding back. Here, in the light, burning so red hot, he could make a man afraid, if he wasn't on his knees in the soot of his house, where he lived for thirteen years that burnt to the ground because of a fucking electrical fault, looking for a fucking pearl ear ring that so that he can have a pair to give to fucking Rose, his fiancee of six years. Who he can't fix, because he's so broken himself, but if he can just find he fucking ear ring then he will have something to give her in an attempt to heal the unhealable wounds that come with losing almost everything you own. And he can't fix that. He can't fix the house. But he can find the fucking god damn mother fucking ear ring, to give to Rose, his fiancee of six years who he can't fix. 

And then he finds it, hidden between boards, and Blake is talking above him but he doesn't care. It doesn't matter. He's found the ear ring. It's soot stained and disgusting but he's found the pair, a matching partnership. He pushes past Blake, as fast as his legs will carry him to outside where Rose is taking a break, just as soot stained and dusty as he is. Blake is clean, of course he is. “Rose!” He's yelling for her, because he can't fix her, or the house, but he can give her the fucking ear rings. She sees something is up, and comes sprinting up to him. 

…

Rose had been talking with Mattie and Jean. It was tiring. Mattie was continuously regaling them with tales of her amazing husband from London, while Jean sulked over her relationship with Blake. Rose found herself playing with her engagement ring and thinking about Charlie, carefully tuning Mattie out.

If you'd told Rose ten years ago that she'd be thinking about quitting her job to marry Sergeant Charlie Davis, she might have laughed at you. She suspects Charlie thought the same thing. But there was something about him, something equal parts fragile and ferocious. Something that bit and tore and killed, but something that also needed a shelter, something to hold on to.

She distinctly recalled the day Jean left. She remembers because Charlie called her after she was gone, and told her that he didn't want to get drunk alone. And they'd kissed. He tasted like toothpaste and whiskey. She remembers all these moments. She keeps them especially so she can go over them. 

Blake had been gone a two years by this point. They sat in his office, behind his desk, drinking out of his best glasses, and Charlie listened to her talk for hours. He was like that. He liked to listen. He was attentive too, never disengaged her, the whole time. 

They'd had sex that night too. There was no beating around the bush. Charlie was not inexperienced, and neither was she. It was good fun. Charlie tasted good, felt good, solid under her fingers. He looked at her the whole time, most of the boys she'd messed around hadn't been brave enough. He was. He told her years later, in the quiet of their house, the one that burned down, that nothing meant more to him then making sure his partner had a good time, and he was probably memorizing every crease and wrinkle on her face. 

Later, when their bodies were more familiar, when she knew just where to kiss, and his eyes felt free to roam the rest of her body, no longer afraid of missing things, he memorized her face with one of his hands, the other supporting his weight. 

After they were done, and they lay side by side, Charlie had rolled over to see her. Unsure of what to say to her, but she'd sushed him. “Let's just sleep.” She agreed to go to the pictures with him that evening. She can't recall the film, or where they sat, but she recalls Charlie dropping her at Lawson's, and kissing her real and proper. She half wanted him naked in her bedroom again, but she decided not tonight, tonight they would have this. 

That was when she heard it. Turning part way around, she saw Charlie, in all his soot and dust covered glory, running toward her. She got up and ran to him. If he was running then something had to be wrong, she was sure of it. 

He held his hand out to her, insistently. She cupped her palm to receive two soot stained pearl ear rings that had been a gift from her mother when she realized that Charlie and Rose weren't getting married any time soon. Charlie looked...Over joyed. She hadn't realized he cared around these ear rings, or her jewelery in general.   
“I found the pair.” He said, proudly. It's out of character. But it means something to him. She puts them in, they're clip ons, and then gives him a kiss.   
“Thank you.” She said, blinking back a fresh set of tears as she brushed some soot off Charlie's shirt, and gasped. The nail he'd damaged had bled slightly. All this for her ear rings? She pulled the taller being into a tight hug, and they stood there for ages, just holding one another. She wonders what has come of their lives. 

They are both prideful people, but now they're standing here, embracing in the driveway covered in ash and soot because Charlie found a pair of ear rings. Over his shoulder she can see Blake. He meets her eyes, but looks away, probably having seen the steely determination to protect Charlie in them. She would go to hell before she let this man she loved so much get hurt so badly again. She strongly suspects Charlie thinks something similar. 

…

So this is it. Thirteen years in Ballarat, summed up in an ugly little shed. While it had looked like they had a lot of things back at the house, here, spread out, she realized just how little there was. A bathtub, some half melted wall hangings, twisted leather that might have once been shoes, a pair of pearl ear rings, six forks, two melted pans, three blouses, a pair of Charlie's work pants...She has to look away because it makes her too sad. 

Rose took a seat on the edge of the bathtub and let out a small sigh. There's nothing left. For not the first time, she wants to take Charlie and run. Leave Ballarat, Lucien Blake and this fire behind them, start a new life where no one knows them. Be alone together. But she can't. She has work here, and as much as it pained her to admit it, Charlie was right. She wanted the work. She loved the work. Much like Charlie loved his police work, she loved writing. Always had, probably always would. There was a glass ceiling to break, there were people to be dealt with. 

And yet here she was, sitting on a bathtub, wearing pearl ear rings that Charlie tore half a nail off to pull from the ashes. Then the door opens, and Lucien is there. She sighs deeply.   
“How did you get in here?”   
“I'm covered in soot. I said I had one last box.”  
“What, so destroying Charlie wasn't enough for you? You want to ruin his things as well?”  
“I wouldn't say I destroyed Charlie.”   
“Well, you did. All of them. You hurt so many people.”  
“I know.”  
“Why?” It's a small, almost silent plea.   
“I got scared.” Rose starred at him for a long time, trying to see, to understand.   
“They loved you so much.” She whispered. “And you left.”  
“I love them so much. I wanted to be with my daughter.”   
“And you didn't think to mention that? They would have understood a little. But you just left.” Blake sat next to her on the bathtub.   
“I'm sorry.”   
“I don't think it's going to be enough.” She whispered. “I don't know Jean Beazley, or Danny Parks, or Mattie O'Brian. But I know Matthew Lawson, and I know Charlie Davis.” A pause. “And they aren't gonna forgive you any time soon. Maybe not ever.” Blake nodded, and looked at her.   
“You don't seem angry.”  
“I don't give a shit about you, or about what you did. As long as you don't hurt my family then I don't have cause to.” Blake nodded, and looked out at the ashes.   
“It was my home too.” Rose says nothing. 

…

“I want to get married.” She declared. Charlie looked up, shocked.   
“Oh-kay.”   
“I'm serious. I want to get married.”  
“Rose...” He sounds tired. He has heavy bags under his eyes, and he looks unkept.   
“I want to leave Ballarat forever, go to Perth, go to Darwin, go to Hobart. You can get a transfer, we can get married, and then I'll be your housewife.”   
“No you don't.”   
“I want to leave, Charlie.” He looked at her with weary eyes, and patted the couch next to him. She sat, she's wearing a skirt from Mattie, a gift, apparently. It doesn't fit quite right but she wanted to show she cared. Charlie is wearing pants that she doesn't recognize, and a jumper that she recalls seeing Lawson in once.   
“Why?”   
“Because I hate this town, these people and that house.” Charlie slowly put an arm over her shoulders, and then kissed her cheek.   
“You don't really want to give up your job.”   
“Why does being married to you and having my job have to be to mutually exclusive things?” Charlie let out a long, shuddering sigh.   
“Because the world hates women so much that getting married is reason to fire them.” A pause, “People would spread talk about me not being able to support you, your whole life would become you as Mrs Davis.”   
“I know.”  
“And frankly I don't want to live in Hobart. Can't stand Tasmania.” Rose actually let out a tiny laugh.   
“Do you really want to marry me?” She asked, after a moment. “Most men are afraid when their wife isn't a docile little sweet heart. Emasculated, even.”   
“I'm perfectly comfortable in my masculinity.” Charlie responded, but took the bait. “Rose, if I didn't like that you weren't a submissive and docile lapdog then I wouldn't have strung you along this far. I'm in it for the long haul, none of this 'Taming of the Shrew' bullshit.” He said, with that eaten-something-minty expression again. He's thinking about Blake, how he probably thought the same thing before he ran off.   
“You're thinking about Blake.”   
“So're you. You know I'd never walk out on you like that, you just wanted to make me say it.”  
“You thought the same thing about Blake. He seemed like such a reasonable man.” Charlie sighed, and put his cheek on Rose's head.   
“People do shitty things and make bad choices.”   
“You sound understanding.”  
“I am, in some ways. But I'm more angry then anything else.” He revealed, but paused, before continuing.   
“You still want to punch him.”   
“If you hadn't stopped me I'd have beaten him half to death.”  
“Good thing I did then.” She said, seriously. Charlie used one had to smooth out wrinkles from her skirt, before joining their hands on her thigh.   
“We were fine without him.”   
“We'll be fine with him, too.”   
“I just wanted to prove to him so badly that I didn't need him to be happy. I didn't need his approval. I didn't want it.”  
“Why?”  
“I don't know. I missed him, I was angry and hurt, I dunno.”   
“Are you happy, here with me?”  
“I've never had a lot to compare it too, but I imagine I am.” If it came from someone else then it might have been a joke, but Charlie's gotten considerably better at understanding his own and other people's emotions, not to mention that she can tell when he's lying, so it's true. “Are you happy?” The question catches her off guard.

She loves Charlie, that's true. Not so much this piece of soggy cardboard that he's been these last few days, but the real Charlie, the one that could bare his teeth and fight that one she loved. If Charlie stayed like this forever then she guessed she'd love him as well. She couldn't imagine any version of her life without Charlie in it. While it was true, for a while she'd been scared of losing her own identity when she became 'Mrs Davis' but she knew she wouldn't. She was happy with her job. She was credited for her own stories and got the front page quite often. She had been happy in her house, when it was still up. 

“I am, yes.” Charlie offered her one of his rare smiles that was a real smile, a prideful one, even.   
“Guess I can do somethings right.” He said, and kissed her hair. “I love you.” He said, softly.   
“I love you.” She replied, trying to put as much love as she could into every syllable, just in case he didn't know. 

…

There's nothing left, here, or otherwise. The burned objects in the shed beckon to him, and he answers the call. Charlie threw open the shed door, and then gazed in the room at its contents. Behind him, a fire burns, and he has to find Rose. He was sure she was here, among the ashes of their old life, the one they loved, but he cannot find her. It is important to find her, he loves her and he swore the would protect her, that's what husbands do.

Rose is not here. She must be back in the house. He turns. Lawson's house is burning, but he's the only one out here. He runs as hard as he could back into the house, choking on smoke, and struggling to get air into his lungs as he sprints down the hallway, a million doors stopping him from finding her. He starts to giggle each handle, burning his hands as he runs to each locked door. He has to find her, he can't just leave her here. He has to find her. He's her husband he swore to protect her. 

He wakes up. Rose is still here, on the bed next to him, the way she always was. Her face is sweet, calm in sleep. She's facing him, but they aren't touching. He studies her the way he always does, the curve of her jaw, the flutter of eyelash, the smoothness of her hair. Memories every detail, threading it deep in his memory to be called up whenever he wants to see it, this last slice of goodness in his world. 

He wants to marry her more then he's ever wanted anything in his life. He wants her to have a beautiful dress, and to have Lawson walk her down the isle. He wants Mrs Beazley there, smiling at him, telling him she's proud. He wants Blake there too. Married to Jean for ten years, happily, standing behind him as his best man, smiling at Rose, swelling with pride for the both of them. But he can't have that. He can't let Rose give up her job thinking it would make him happy. She'd be miserable without the work, and they both knew it. Neither of them were built for the relaxing picket fence life with two kids and a dog. They both knew it, too. But they were made for the life that they'd had with one another. Talking, playing, fighting and just being in each other's lives was enough. 

He studies her, again, before rolling over and getting up. He didn't dress per say, just threw his robe over his clothes, and left. Not Rose and not forever, but he left. He walked through the living room on silent feet, Blake is asleep on the couch. (Lawson is, despite his protests, kind at heart)

He doesn't risk using the car and waking up the other people in the house. So he runs. It's halfway across town, and by the time he gets to the shed, his knees are weak and he's choking on every breath of icy air he tries to force into his useless lungs. He vomits behind the shed, having worked his body to the limit, before crawling into the bathtub inside the shed, grateful he hadn't been seen crawling on his knees like some kind of child. 

Once in the tub, he weeps shamelessly. He dry heaves twice from the force of his crying. He hadn't wanted to break down like this in front of Lawson or Frank or perhaps worse, Rose. He can't stop the earth shaking sobs now they've started, he can't control the hot tears that he swears must be scorching him worse then anything the fire ever touched. Because he has nothing. Every trace of his life, when he'd been happy with Blake seems to have been burned away. He retches again. He's probably dehydrated from running, and that's making everything worse then it would normally be, but he can't stop his bodies rebellious crying long enough to seek out water. 

Any anger he might have held towards Blake is now gone, sapped by the sadness and the pain of losing so much that he cannot even bear the thought of losing this distant figure of a man he once loved, once idolized, once put so high that he had no choice but to fall; to run. His throat burns with acid and air that is cold and drying. His cries have become little more then moans. He is so tired he might well sleep here, but he doesn't. 

Like always, just when Charlie thought that he'd reached his limit, gone as far as he possibly could, just when he thought that it was time to give in, that he'd used every last reserve he had and it was now time to simply let go and fall into the abyss of grief so deep that he may never get out, he forced himself to keep moving. He sat up, and used the back of his hand to wipe tears from his face. 

He noticed a box sitting where Blake had put it down and he wandered over to it, opening it, and peering in. Hidden inside was his letters from Blake, kept in the bottom drawer of the desk. They were wet and unreadable now, not that he had ever read them or intended to read them, but somehow, seeing them like this awakened his grief again, and he wanted to go back to the bathtub and cry. But he doesn't, he holds one up to his face like he'd done a million times before and tried to breathe the last of Blake in off the folded, crumbling pages before they too turned to dust. 

Hidden under the letter is a photo frame, it's turned over, so he can's possibly know what one it is. Turning it over, he saw them. Old him and old Blake. The ones they had been, before Blake decided to go be with his family. He looks happy, Blake does. He's standing out the front with Charlie and Jean, the young Charlie is sandwhiched between the happy couple, grinning broadly himself. If Jean and Blake noticed that it never really reached his eyes then they never said anything. Embalmed behind glass, he'd hidden this photo after Jean left, unable to see it anymore. 

Behind him, a door opens. He doesn't have to turn to know who it was. “You know, out of everything that survived this fire, it shouldn't surprise me that it was you.” Blake is a silent presence, coming up behind him and looking at the photograph in the light of the waxing moon.   
“I always liked that picture.” Is all Blake says, and Charlie feels sadder then he ever thoguht possible because despite everything, despite the hurt and the sadness he doesn't want to hear the sad note in Blake's voice because it's an admission that he doesn't know. How could he? Charlie had just always wanted to think that Blake would know, somehow. That if he hadn't been able to get to Rose and save her then Blake would. If he had been asleep, then Blake would go though hell and high water for him. It's a false and horrible hope; but he held it anyway. 

“We'll forgive you.”   
“I never asked for that.”   
“I know. But you're a part of our family. As broken and shitty as it is, it's still our family. And while it's still mine, it's still yours too.”   
“Very kind of you to say that.”   
“'s got nothing to do with kindness.” Charlie said, feeling that bone deep sadness again. “We loved you, and despite what you've done, we still and probably against our better judgment still love you.” He pressed the photo into Blake's hands so he could look at it. “It might take a while. But if you stick around and prove you won't leave again than who knows. Might even be able to get Jean back.” Blake scoffs slightly, and sets the photo down. “I know how it goes from here.” He said, finally. “I haven't known how to get here but now I am, I know how it goes.”   
“How does it go?”  
“We're going to sit in here and have a good cry.” He said, dropping down to the floor in front of the box. “And then, you'll take me home to Rose, and we'll finish clearing out our things from Mycroft Avenue, and you'll knock down whats left. Alice will step down as Police Surgeon because you're nothing without your work, and because fate is cruel we'll probably start back on the same day. Rose and I will get married in a Church in Melbourne, and both our mothers will wear blue and fight and Jean will wear that pink dress she brought after she trashed her blue one after you went because she knew you liked her in it. You'll be my best man, probably because you paid for most of the wedding out of guilt and I felt like I owed you, God knows Rose and I will be poor now if we weren't already, and she'll look so lovely. Maybe I'll kiss her a little too long, and you'll have to tap my shoulder so that we do break appart. We'll skip the honeymoon, because we have to move into our new house in the suburbs, close to the school we want our kids to attend even though I'm forty this year and far to old to be having kids. Edward will fire Rose, and she'll be sad and I'll say I told you so and you'll say not to be mean because you're living with us, giving Matthew a break no doubt, while your new house -slash- practice is built where the other house used to be. We'll have a kid, name him after her dad or your mother, I imagine, since there's no one on my side worth naming their kid after. You'll be their god parent, along with Jean because you're courting again now. And one day, I'll wake up, because Jean is knocking on my door, telling me that you've taken off again, leaving us here probably for good this time.”   
He seems to pause, gather his thoughts.   
“How did you know to come? Your special Blake skills?”  
“I was coming anyway. Danny told me about the fire when he picked me up from the airport. I just had a sense I needed to be here.”  
“Are you leaving again?”  
“No.” Blake has tears on his face while he listened to Charlie's version of their futures, it's positivity a river now.   
“Why should I believe you?”  
“I don't know.” Charlie watched him for a long time, before putting his head on Blake's arm and looking out the open door at the stars as if they could answer his question. As they always had, they offer him nothing. Tears well in his eyes, and he feels strong, warm arms wrap around him, pulling him close. Mourning continues. 

…

Some of the things Charlie predicted came true. Some did not, Blake thought, taking another bite of the meal Charlie and Rose had provided for them this evening. 

Charlie and Rose had indeed moved out of Lawson's house into their own place, and it was indeed a little house in suburbia, because that was indeed all they could afford. But they still weren't married and still had no kids. He was indeed the police surgeon again, since Alice hadn't even really wanted to take over in the first place. He was staying with Charlie and Rose while he rebuilt the house on Mycroft Avenue. But he and Jean had not repaired their relationship. Might never repair it. But he was okay with that, since she had agreed to be his friend, at least. She still lived in Adelaide, however. 

Some things were different. Bill Hobart confessed to being homosexual, and his room mate was welcomed into the family. Frank had given up on betting totally at Charlie's request, taking instead to chess. Mattie went back to London, but promised to write much more frequently then she had been. Charlie's mother had learned to at the very least be civil to Rose or Charlie would drop contact with her entirely. Life had (as it often did) went on. 

After dinner, they departed to the living room, each sitting in their usual spot to watch the newest incarnation of game of champions. Rose sat on the left most side of the cheap three seat couch, smoothing her equally cheap skirt over her knees. Everything in the house was cheap, Replacing everything you own is expensive. (He would know) Charlie occupied the floor in front of her, just tall enough to rest his head in her lap while they watched, even if he was mostly complaining about having to watch this drivel. Lawson sat next to Rose, and if Jean was in town, she would sit next to him. If she wasn't, like this week, Alice would. Bill and David would sit in chairs brought in from the kitchen, and sat on opposing sides of the couch. Blake himself sat in the only arm chair, while Frank sat on the arm rest on Alice's half of the couch. 

Charlie had been right about one other thing. This was his family, as shitty and broken as it was, it was where he belonged. He looked over to the young inspector, who is looking up at Rose rather then at the show on TV, and he looks so happy and so content that he's almost totally unrecognizable compared to the man he was. He remembers something the younger told him once, about different people from different times and he's glad he came back. He's glad he got to meet and know this Charlie Davis. 

He notices Rose is wearing the pearl ear rings Charlie dug out of the ashes of their old life and thinks to himself that yes, it was gone, but now he had this one, which was even better.


End file.
